


please picture me

by royalwisteria



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Light Angst, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age), darts with knives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:42:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29420310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalwisteria/pseuds/royalwisteria
Summary: Hawke prefers to live her life without expectations, of herself or of others. It's better that way; it's easier.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Varric Tethras, Hawke/Varric Tethras
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11
Collections: Hightown Funk 2020





	please picture me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheIcyQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIcyQueen/gifts).



“Adaar makes horrible first impressions,” Varric tells her, “so don’t take it to heart. She’ll like you, trust me.”

“I don’t particularly care if she likes me or not, Varric,” Hawke replies, peeling an apple with a ubiquitous knife. “When have I ever cared about what people thought of me?”

Varric levels one of his knowing looks at her, the type of look that more than a decade of friendship entitles him to. “Don’t give me that bullshit. You always care.”

Hawke shrugs and slides a piece of peel into her mouth. The flesh is a little mealy, and she chews slowly, reminding herself of when apples were a luxury. “Fine. True. I care. But I also trust your judgement, so I don’t care. This time.”

Varric warned her of Adaar’s height, but Hawke is surprised nonetheless. She whistles as she notices Adaar exit onto the ramparts. “Maker, Varric, you could have told me about her _shoulders_.” Varric snorts, and Hawke can’t help herself. “And look at those _horns_ , oh man, Varric, how could you not have told me about _those_?”

“She’s Qunari,” Varric deadpans. “Sort of thought horns came with the territory.”

“Yeah, but not like _that_.”

Adaar’s stride is quick, to match her height, and soon she steps down to level with Hawke and Varric.

“Varric?”

“Adaar,” Varric says, smoothly, “it’s my delight to introduce you to Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall. Hawke, the Inquisitor.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Hawke says, peering upwards to take the Inquisitor in. She certainly is tall, but those eyes… Something about them frightens her, and she’s not sure why. It’s not the staff strapped to Adaar’s back, or the latent strength along those shoulders she teased Varric about earlier. Something else.

“Ah. I see.” Adaar’s eyes move from Hawke to Varric, and she raises a thick eyebrow. “Does Cassandra know?”

“Not yet.”

Suddenly, Hawke remembers. Malcolm had green eyes. Malcolm passed when she was, what, eleven? And suddenly, looking at Adaar, she remembers he had green eyes. That’s what’s frightening her: memories and nostalgia.

“What’s this,” she says, “Varric keeping secrets? How unlike him.” She sends a wink his way, and he grins in return.

“You know I abhor all things secret, Adaar,” he says, spreading his hands wide in a familiar way. Her heart aches to see it. “Why, didn’t I tell you about Sera’s sweets stash just the other day? Secrets aren’t my forte.”

Hawke laughs, and Adaar cracks not a whit. The laughter falters, and the green eyes return to focus on her, just a brief moment, before going back to Varric. “And before that,” Adaar says, deadpan, face still still, “you told me all about your naughty dreams, didn’t you?”

Varric blusters, suddenly, his words a tangled mess— “I did no—I didn’t—!”

Adaar laughs briefly, teeth flashing and her canines sharp, and her persona changes. “Don’t worry the little things, my friend,” she says. “You might not be a secret-person, but I am. Your secrets shall remain safe with me.”

Hawke is assuredly not laughing anymore, and she turns to Varric. “That’s not fair. Why does she get to know this secret, and I don’t? Varric, I thought I was your greatest friend!”

Varric’s mouth is still open from when his sputtering ended. “I’m not having this conversation with you,” he tells Hawke, wagging a finger back and forth, once, twice, “and I’ll leave you to discuss business matters. Teasing can wait ‘til later.”

Hawke’s mouth opens to rebut, to insist that teasing can never wait, or some such thing, but Adaar has grasped her shoulder. “Let’s talk Corypheus and the sky-scar.”

They discuss both matters, talk everything through to the depth of Hawke’s knowledge, and they’re leaning against the rampart walls as the sun sets. A cold breeze sweeps over the castle walls, and Hawke shivers.

“Do not worry over-much about Varric and his secrets, Marian,” Adaar says. Hawke squints at her, the sun just to the left of Adaar. When they lean, their height is much more alike, but only sans Adaar’s horns.

“I’m not worried. Everyone has secrets.”

Adaar’s smiles are quick things, here then gone, and one appears at that. “Even you?”

Hawke pushes away from the rampart wall and stretches, arms above her head. “Especially me, don’t you think? I caused the whole shitty mage-templar war, didn’t I. Who better?”

Adaar stands and rests her hand heavily on Hawke’s head. After a moment, she ruffles Hawke’s hair. “Marian, go. Rest. We had our talk, and you deserve a rest. I don’t want to see you for a week.”

“It’s so… clean.”

Iron Bull snorts and passes her a mug. “I know what you mean. It’s a bit _too_ clean. Makes you wonder if anything worthwhile happens.”

“Hear hear,” Hawke says, raising her new mug with a grin. “You know exactly what I mean!” She takes a sip, and then turns it into chugging the whole mug. She gustily exhales and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “I got so used to the shit ale at the Hanged Man, I forget how good ale can be.”

Bull laughs and slaps her on the back. He hits a little hard, as though forgetting his own strength, but Hawke’s heard enough about the mercenary from Varric to not believe that facade for a second. He then lifts his own mug and drains it handily. “Second round’s on me!”

She smirks. “I’ve drunk plenty of types under the table before, my good friend,” she says, wagging a finger as the bartender takes their mugs and fills them, “don’t go thinking I’m an easy mark.”

“Hawke,” Bull says, both forearms on the counter and head tilted to look at her. His horns nearly tip over his mug. “I never underestimate anyone. It’s how I got this far.”

“Uh-huh.” She takes a sip, singular, and then her eyes rove around the Herald’s Rest. Bit of a posh name for some old, run-down place, but it is clean. It really is clean. The floorboards don’t have legions of stains, the tables are well-constructed and don’t wobble, and the staircase is in good repair. It doesn’t smell like stale ale and stale cheese in here, but she almost prefers that scent of nostalgia to the scent of merriment.

Then her eyes land on a circular board hanging on the wall. “Is that…?” She doesn’t mean to trail off, but instead she hits Bull’s arm and points wordlessly at the darboard.

“Oh, yeah,” he says with a wide grin. “It is.”

“Stand up, big guy,” she says and taps on his arm. “We’re playing.”

“I only play with a pot,” he says, standing up and following her to the board, taking his mug and passing hers over. “So what’s at stake here?”

“Hmm.” She takes a sip of ale and pats her pocket. A stale biscuit, a few coppers, a spool of thread. Nothing worth betting. “We could do favors.”

Bull’s eye sharpens at the thought. “Or secrets.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I don’t keep secrets,” she says. “I like to keep free of them. Pesky shitters.”

He laughs. “What rules do you play by?”

“I’ve got my own set of rules.” She pulls her trouser leg free of her boot and pulls loose her anklet of blades out. “These, my large friend, are the best to play with.” There are seven in total, each the size of her index finger, with coarse thread wrapped around the blunt end as a handle. “They’re also handy when it comes to lockpicking.”

“Do you just always carry those about?” Bull asks.

“I’ve lived a varied life,” Hawke replies, and hands four over to him. “As a handicap,” she says with a wink.

They’ve finished three rounds, Bull crying for a best four of even, and two ales each when Varric walks in. A brisk breeze blows through the Rest with his entrance, and it carries his grumbling with it. Hawke’s ears perk at the sound of her trusty dwarf. “No can do,” she tells Bull with a grin, “but you keep your favor, and I’ll take the last of your ale.” She pulls her blades free from the dartboard and hurriedly rolls them up before vaulting over an empty table to join Varric at the bar.

“Varric!”

He looks up at her, and he looks tired. Weary, and a little wary. It’s been years since Hawke last saw that look.

“I don’t…” He shakes his head and rubs at his forehead. The previous joy of beating Bull so thoroughly at darts dissipates in the face of her friend’s distress.

“Don’t what?” Varric looks at her and seems to really, _really_ look at her. His eyes flit between her own, traces the shape of her brow, and studies her chin. She swallows. “Varric?”

“I’m no company tonight,” he mutters and tears his eyes away from her. “Thought I’d find… something here.”

“We don’t have to talk. We can just sit here. Want to hear the latest from Isabela?”

He nods and closes his eyes. She starts to talk, and just keeps talking. She exhausts all the news from Isabela, and soon she starts talking about others, and stories from her childhood. Stories from Kirkwall, stories that Varric himself took part in. She keeps talking and talking, and soon Varric starts responding. His wit takes time to build, but soon he’s making dry remarks about something Fenris did, or sly digs at Aveline.

Hawke sleeps well that night.

When Hawke steps out of the Fade, her prevalent emotion is relief. Bone-deep, coursing through her veins, _relief_ , that known deep-sigh—that, and a rapidly encroaching sense of panic. Amidst the corpses of her sister’s brethren, she throws up. It’s mostly bile, acidic and burning her throat, the aftertaste leading to bending down and heaving, trying to get that thing out of her throat.

A hand rests on her back, close to the nape of her neck. The heat is close to her skin, hair having fallen in front. It’s a slight pressure, below the knob of her spine, and Hawke closes her eyes. The relief is still there, but lessens. The panic steps back, just a little, just enough that Hawke can look up at Varric through strands of black. She smiles weakly. He offers a flask—water, hopefully, but one never knows with Varric.

“Don’t do that again,” he says. Hawke takes a long draw from the flask (water, after all), swirls, spits, ignores him.

The Inquisition soldiers have arrived on the scene, and the Wardens left standing are corralled. The Inquisitor, shoulders somehow not hunched, stands to her full height, arms crossed, and stares into nothing. Technically, she’s staring at a broken section of wall, but she’d bet a golden nug Adaar’s mind is stuck in the Fade, thinking about Stroud. She watches as Cullen approaches her, hesitates to put a hand on her shoulder, then goes for it.

Adaar barely moves, and Hawke can barely see the finite muscle movements as her glance slides towards Cullen. He hesitates again; Hawke watches them talk. For a moment, Adaar’s eyes flick towards Hawke, and she feels pinned, butterfly to a board, much like she had when facing the Arishok. Adaar’s green eyes move away, and Hawke unbends her back.

Relief.

Stroud should be here. He should be directing the Grey Wardens, instigating whatever comes next. She’s nothing but a fraud, standing here, her own Maker-cursed vomit at her feet. She takes a sip from the flask and swallows this one. She wishes Bethany were here, and simultaneously she is grateful Bethany is not here. Hawke sometimes wishes she’d never met Varric, in Hightown, and sometimes she wishes it was her and not Carver back in Ferelden. She wishes Malcolm and Leandra hadn’t been murdered. She wishes she could sleep through the night.

Instead, she sits on the ground of a ruined fortress and absorbs the warmth of Varric’s hand. Maybe he could leave it there forever, something to ground her, something to warm her. Something to hold as she watches the moon reach its zenith.

She shakes her head, rolls her shoulders, and stands up, and Varric’s hand slips away. There is blood splattered all over; some of it is hers. There is blood on the ground, all around them. The air smells of metal and sulphur, that unique combination of blood and demon ichor.

This time, when she bends over, Hawke throws up. Varric’s hand returns to her neck.

“That’s not how you deal.”

“It is in Lothering.”

Varric snorts from his armchair. Why he gets an armchair, when the rest of them are all on wooden benches, is beyond her. They all look at their cards, and Hawke slides her index down the edges of one. The deck is new, and she hates new decks. They’re too blank a slate, too easy to read. All her good tricks require dirty cards, nicked cards, cards with frayed edges. And, since it’s new, they’ll all know if she makes any swaps. Maker damn it all.

“That,” Krem says, jutting his chin towards Varric, “means you’re lying..”

She purses her lips. “Have any of you played Wicked Grace in Lothering?” She lays her cards down in front of her, puts her hand on top and rolls her fingers along them. “Hm, any of you?”

Iron Bull’s head is tilted, and he’s scratching at the side of his face. “I’m not sure I’ve even heard of a Lothering.”

“It’s because it’s burned down,” Varric says. “And it doesn’t matter, does it? We’ve all five cards.”

Hawke, actually, has six cards, but so does Varric. It’s how she bribes his silence. So far: a terrible hand. Starting with the Angel of Death is bad luck. That’s what Malcolm always told her, when she was a tot, hands barely capable of holding his worn deck. Getting the Angel of Death at the start is bad luck, and drawing the Angel of Death first draw is good luck. She never cares for superstition, but this one she’s never minded.

Otherwise, all low-grace cards. While Krem tosses a few coppers into the pool, she slides the Angel of Death up her sleeve. Bull calls, and Varric eyes her across the table. She waggles her eyebrows, he rolls his eyes, and he calls. When the betting passes Dalish, then Sera, Hawke calls. She can see Sera’s hand easily; for a Denerim-raised girl, she’s awful at cards. Hawke truly thinks it a shame, but she’s trained too many card sharks already. Fenris beating her was an awful day.

Varric discards a Song, Dalish picks a new card, Sera discards.

There is a comfortable tension in the air. It was a tension she lived with for years, in Kirkwall. A low-stakes tension, the sort of tension when you don’t know if you’ll trip or save yourself mild pain. Dalish banters, and Sera’s aggressive in response. Varric’s low voice melds with Bull’s, and Hawke’s own voice joins in higher-pitched harmony.

She’s missed these sounds. She’s missed easy camaraderie. She could have joined Isabela on her ship, with Fenris. She could have walked the Free March trails with Anders, assisting best she could with the mundanities he thrives on. She could have stayed with Bethany, in the small village she found sanctuary in; or she could have taken Bethany to Weisshaupt, and do her best for being the one of the few who, once again, survived.

But she didn’t, now, did she? She’s at Skyhold instead, a part of the Inquisition. Bethany is fine. Isabela and Fenris are fine, and Hawke knows they’re having a grand old time hunting slavers. Anders could use someone, but she doesn’t want to be that someone.

Varric’s fingers tap a rhythm she hasn’t heard in a while. _You’ve got it_ , he says. _Play it soon or else_.

She could have, but what about Varric? He’s putting a show on, as much as he seems comfortable here. The show of the grand storyteller, the surface dwarf and friend of the notorious Champion of Kirkwall. She’s here for him, isn’t she?

Dalish hems and haws, deciding whether to call on Varric’s raise. Hawke drums her fingers, and slips the Serpent she most recently drew and slides the Angel of Death out. Her hand’s not the best she’s ever gotten, but she once got a royal set. Nothing will ever top that, nor the look on Varric’s face when she laid her cards down. A smile curls at the corner at the memory.

She spends too much time in the past. The past haunts, torments, and delights her all in equal pleasure. She cannot get enough of the pain and joy inflicted, but Bethany asked her something when they left Kirkwall. _What now, sister? What are you going to do, now that you’re alone?_

Hawke avoids loneliness like a plague, like an Archdemon, the worst sort of evil to visit. But she’s never gotten away from it in all her life.

Sera raises, and Hawke flips the Angel of Death for all to see. “Four Wisdom’s,” she says.

Varric’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Good hand, Hawke,” he says, as the others toss their cards in. “What about this?” He lays his cards down, and the bastard somehow got a royal set. It’s an impossible hand for him to have, as she knows Sera had discarded the Angel of Mercy at the beginning of the round.

Hawke returns his smile, and that loneliness lifts a little. “Well played,” she says. “Another round, all?”

Hawke once farted on the Viscount’s throne for a lark, but the Winter Palace is glamorous enough it takes ten minutes to think where she’d want to fart here, but then ten minutes after that, she just misses Varric. Well, she misses everyone—like Isabela would make a cracking good joke about so-and-so’s tits, and Fenris would broodily glare and provide her simplest, easiest teasing material. Varric just comes to mind first, because he’s—well, he’s been around the most, most lately.

She’s wearing a dress, mostly at Josephine’s insistence. After Adamant and sticking around Skyhold, the wily Antivan somehow sunk her claws and fashion sense into Hawke. Maybe it was the curly hair? Hawke’s always liked curly hair.

Regardless, she’s wearing a dress, and the fabric is flimsy enough to make her flinch when it brushes against her arms. She’s wearing a dragonbone stomacher and leather leggings with a few blades underneath, but her arms aren’t protected. They are, in fact, bare. Her scars show. She’d never been much conscious of them in the past, but all others at the Winter Palace have unblemished skin.

It means something, she’s sure. She’s not sure she gives a fuck. She’s always been a bent nail, but now, despite her greatest wishes, she represents something more than just herself. Kirkwall, to one extent; the Inquisition, to another.

She’s skulking near balcony doors when she hears the announcement of the Inquisitor’s arrival. Adaar strides in, and the whispers rise in volume. She’s followed by the advisors, and then a few select companions slink in after the trio. Varric counts amongst them, but his eyes face forward the whole length of the floor. Hawke’s feet itch, to run, to skip, just to move and get the itchiness in her chest away. Adaar makes her bow to the Empress, and all of Adaar’s companions are summarily dismissed. While Adaar follows Leiliana off the floor, Varric doubles back towards Hawke with unerring aim. As he approaches, she can finally see golden epaulettes, and the silken blue sash contrasting with the bright red of the torso; his hair is pulled back into a neat braid and falls to a length that surprises her.

Just looking at him makes her itch, and she’s not even wearing the damn uniform. Red is also, most definitely, not her favorite color on him.

“You look horrid.”

Varric runs a broad hand over his broad face, over cheekbones tinted ruddy from the heat of candle fires. The hand stops on his chin, and he strokes it, suddenly contemplative.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you in a dress before.”

Hawke’s first instinct is to protest, but she can’t even recall the last time she wore a dress. She didn’t wear one for Mother’s funeral, and that’s the only potential occasion since Ferelden she can think of as a potential.

“Yes, well.” It’s all she can think of to say, and Varric snorts.

“I thought you’d be dressed for adventure. We’re in the Winter Palace, heart of Orlesian politics! My mistake, to think you’d be interested in some digging around.”

Her eyes narrow. Varric’s sorrowful look is so badly put-upon even Merrill would question it. “What did you have in mind?” she asks suspiciously.

“No, no, can’t have you ruining your pretty dress, can I? All the Inquisition are dressed in uniform for ease of movement, but…” His eyes trail down to the wide hem of her dress, then back to her face. He’s smirking, the bastard.

“At least I don’t look like a boiled egg,” she snaps.

Varric scoffs. “At least I can scale a wall without worrying about knickers.”

She sniffs and strikes an Orlesian posed: the lifted nose. “I’m wearing leathers underneath, so joke’s on you. I could rip these skirts off at any time, but Josephine’s… terrifying.”

“She is, isn’t she.”

Hawke fidgets at the waistline. It’s more defined than she’s comfortable with, and the stomacher tighter than normal. Josephine had also insisted on this. She crosses her arms, in front of her abdomen, using her hands to cover scars she barely notices.

“You look good, Hawke,” Varric says softly.

Hawke snorts. “I look ridiculous, you mean. Bethany would crack up seeing me like this.”

“I think she’d be proud of you.”

Hawke bites her tongue. The more time passes, the more she realizes she has no idea who her little sister is. Would Bethany be proud, or would Bethany laugh? And how much does Hawke mix her little sister with her little brother?

“Thank you,” she says, haltingly. “Now, what kind of adventure were you thinking of?”

It is hours later. The ball is winding down, and Hawke has some nice trinkets tied around her thigh like a garter belt. Varric showed her some very nice locked rooms, and they joined the Inquisitor in some bloody fights as needed. There are some grass stains on her skirts that weren’t there at the beginning of the evening, as well as a couple tears, but the whole ensemble is intact. Hawke thinks she deserves an award for such an achievement, but isn’t sure who to pester to receive it. Josephine, maybe? Except, last Hawke peeked, Adaar and Josephine were on the balcony, standing close, and Hawke’s not interested in blocking whatever that is.

“Had a good time?” Varric appears at her elbow, two champagne glasses in hand.

“Thank you,” she murmurs and takes a sip. “I am shocked to say I did. Sword fights in the gardens and lockpicking in the treasury were certainly a surprise.”

He grins at her; his hair is messily pulled back, the neat braid from earlier unravelled, and strands have fallen in front of his face.

“You’re a mess,” she says and reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. He freezes. She freezes, fingers in his hair, the pads just lightly touching the outer curve of his ear. Something is pounding in her chest and roaring in her ears.

When’s the last time she was intimate with someone? When is the last time Hawke said _I love you_ to anyone?

It’s all she can think about, as they stare at each other. Her hand drops; his grin goes sour.

Is hair-touching a form of intimacy? Is that what just happened—did Hawke just initiate intimacy with Varric? What prompted it, what caused it, why is her heart so loud, why is it the only thing she can hear is her own breathing, why is it that she is always able to recognize Varric in a crowd, why does she know his hands better than her own, the cheekbones and the nose, the flecks of gold in his brown eyes? Why—?

_Oh._

Oh.

She’s never known anyone the way she knows Varric, and the answer is so very simple, isn’t it? These sorts of things are always easy in the books Varric writes, a matter of following patterns and lines and personality types. She never thought it would happen to her. She doesn't fit the mold.

 _Oh_ , she wonders, _when did I fall in love?_

Returning from Halamshiral, it is all Hawke can do to breathe in his presence.

The group returns to Skyhold, and they settle in place as snow blocks them in. The mountains are beautiful in the wintertime; the snow crystallizes, and there seems to be a lightness amongst the troops and visitors that wasn’t there before. They are stuck on the mountains, glaciers and exposed rock all around them. They are cocooned in the warmth of the castle, fires blazing everywhere. Breath freezes in the air, and cheeks go rosy in the chill. The visitors are stuck at Skyhold, and no one new comes for days.

Hawke spends time in the library. She becomes better acquainted with Dorian, and they play word games with each other. He researches, and she folds paper. Every so often, the door to Solas’s chamber swings open, and her ears strain to catch a hint of Varric.

She is avoiding him, she knows that. Dorian knows it, as does Solas. But it isn’t until Adaar gives her a pitying look as she crosses through the library, does Hawke realize how public her affairs are. They always seem to be.

This is not good.

This isn’t good at all.

This is, in fact, very, _very_ bad.

Hawke’s room at Skyhold is a plain, little square. She doesn’t need anything opulent, like Josephine’s room, but nor does she want whatever Cullen’s got going on. It’s serviceable, and it’s got a neat little fireplace she uses to keep the walls warm. She’s sitting, cross-legged, in front of the fireplace. There’s wood burning in it now, crackling, little embers spitting forth every now and then.

What is she supposed to do? How is she supposed to carry on, when it feels like everything is one slip-up away from tumbling down? She can’t—she can’t lose Varric, and she’s at that precipice. She can’t be too-much with him anymore, because he’s too kind. She can’t pull away, because he’ll frown when he sees her, the worried frown, the frown she’s endeavored for years to keep off his face.

Oh, Maker. She runs a hand down her face while groaning. How fucking oblivious of her. How very typical.

She never wanted to fall in love. Bethany is the romantic of the family. She would force Hawke to play dolls when they were young, or to play house. Hawke never overly minded playing along, because Bethany was easier to play with than Carver. Carver always wanted to fight, was always spoiling for bruises or blood. Playing dolls with Bethany, building little houses out of the cooking tinder, was easier to appease and earn Mother’s approval. When she was a child, that was all that mattered. Pleasing Mother, and Malcolm. Taking care of the twins. Being good, being dutiful, being the eldest child and making sure everyone was safe after Malcolm died.

Star-crossed love just seems to run in the family.

Underneath the bed-frame is her bag. She could run away. She wouldn’t have to see that frown, even if she knows it’ll be there. She could lie to Varric, say she heard from Bethany, or Isabela, or even Aveline! But lies catch up to her. Lies would trap her, and what would she tell Varric then? She knows she’ll still love him years from now, when her knees crack and she has trouble straightening her fingers. Love is in her veins, and there won’t be getting rid of it.

She could leave and say nothing.

Hawke runs a hand through her hair; it’s getting long, for her. Her hand stops at her neck, and she rubs at her skin, at the knob of her spine, at the joint between neck and shoulder. She remembers the warmth of his hand, the crinkle of his eyes, his patience.

She could leave, but she would never be able to return. The loneliness would haunt her for the rest of her days, or she could lose Varric forever. He would be kind and put her down. He has Bianca, he has the Inquisition, and he doesn’t need her. Not the way she needs him. He has found another family here, and Hawke’s accidentally burned too many bridges.

A log falls in the fireplace, and sparks shower upon her. One lands on her sleeve and burns a hole; one lands on her boots and leaves a singe mark.

The snow storm has passed, and her bags are packed. The horse she rode in on has long been assimilated to the Skyhold stables, so she’ll saddle a likely seeming mount and leave. It’s her modus operandi; she ran from Ferelden, she ran from Kirkwall, and now she’s running from Skyhold. This isn’t a surprise, or shouldn’t be a surprise. She does feel a little itch about her leaving, and, well.

She’d hoped she’d grown up in the time since Kirkwall, since Ferelden, but scared little girls remain scared little girls. Anyone who thought more of her has only themselves to blame for that disappointment.

“No good-byes?”

Her hands slip while cinching the girth and the whole saddle slides down the side. “Maker, how’re you so quiet?”

“He’ll be heart-broken.”

Hawke rights the saddle and finishes tightening the girth, giving the horse a soft pat on the neck when done. Then she turns to face Adaar. “He’ll be fine.”

“There’s a lot I could say to you. It would be a sermon, yes, I know you dislike them. It would be a sermon on responsibility, on duty and bravery. But you already know all the things I would say, so I don’t say it. I have no interest in teaching someone who refuses to learn.”

“You really know how to talk, don’t you.”

“Marian Hawke. You seem to believe that he does not love you back. There is no basis for such a belief.”

“Do not presume to know me, nor my feelings. As for Varric, his feelings are of his own concern, and not for us to meddle in.”

“The both of you are the biggest, most stubborn fools I’ve ever had the good fortune of meeting. For love of your Maker, talk to him. It is only destined to fail because you have decided it will.”

“I don’t like you a great deal right now.”

“I assure you, Marian, the feelings of humans do not rank very high in my priorities. You may leave if you wish, but I know you will regret it.”

Flickering torch light flickers in Adaar’s green eyes, and Hawke’s mind is still stumbling for a response when the Inquisitor turns and leaves. The horse is warm under her hand, the hair bristling against her palm.

Should she go and talk to him? Hasn’t she convinced herself what a monumentally bad idea it is? But… Adaar has a point. How much has Hawke lost by deciding afore-hand she won’t succeed? Her parents made a decision many years ago. They decided to take a chance; however mixed the results were, Hawke has clear memories of Mother’s laughter and Malcolm’s smile. It wasn’t all bad.

It wasn’t all bad.

He’s asleep, and gentle is rarely a word used to describe Hawke.

She pulls a chair up next to his bed and sing-songs “lazybones, wake up,” directly into his ear. She does so incredibly off-key, because he has made too many remarks about her being tone-deaf in the past. He stirs a little, mutters something in his sleep, and Hawke is impatient. She takes the pitcher on his bed-side and pours a little onto his face. He sputters into wakefulness, sitting up as he wipes his face with both hands. He blearily looks up at between his hands, and she knows better to think this her most flattering appearance in his life.

“I’ve been wondering,” she begins while putting the pitcher back on his bed-side, “what do you think of me? In general. Do you like me?”

“Right now? Not at all.”

His voice is hoarse from sleep, and Maker blast it, maybe this isn’t a good idea? There’s still time for her to dash, to pretend this whole scene is a product of sleep deprivation. Dwarves don’t dream, of course, but Hawke’s sure she can shimmy around that issue.

“I mean…” She clears her throat. “Varric. On a normal, day-to-day basis, what are your primary feelings towards me?”

“Did you wake me to feed your oversized ego?”

“Ah, hm, not quite? I just—am I a good person? I’ve been wondering, and thought now a perfect time to ask. Nothing quite like early mornings for an honest chat!”

Varric rubs his, now dry, face and mutters, “I’m going to kill you,” through his hands.

“That’s a… no then? Not a good person. Understood, thanks so much for the clarification. I’ll be—”

“Hawke, sit your ass back down.” She sits down, not even realizing she’d started to stand. “You’re such an idiot. I’ve killed for you, you know? I’ve killed, I’ve lied, I’ve committed an endless number of crimes for you. And you? You’ve done the same for me. I think we’re well beyond the point of wondering if we’re good people or not.”

She squints at him. He won’t meet her eyes anymore. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to make me feel better.”

Varric groans. “Andraste’s tits, Hawke, why do you have the emotional range of a bronto.”

“At least make it a mabari.”

“I’m not interested in having such a convoluted conversation this early. I’m going back to bed. I suggest you do the same.” He lays down, turned away from him. He fidgets a few times as he gets more comfortable, and Hawke stares at the back of his head.

“I think I love you,” she whispers. “Not—not think I do, I know I do. I just want to know—or, I thought I should tell you. Before I leave.”

Varric moves quickly, turning over, legs out of bed and standing in front of her, warm hands gripping her wrists. “What was that?” His voice comes out a whisper. “What did you say?”

Her mouth opens and closes. He’s close. She’s been this close to him before, but not with such awareness. She’s leaned on him while drunk, she’s teasingly pinched his cheeks, she’s had millions of intimacies without realizing that’s what they were.

“I love you.”

A small tic at his mouth draws her eyes, and it turns into a small smile, helpless-looking, and a whuff of air escapes his lips.

“Oh, Hawke,” he whispers. Are his extra shiny in the light, or are those tears? “I never thought I’d hear those words from you.”

“That’s not the customary response, is it? Varric. I want—”

“I love you too.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles. She loves that about him.

His teeth show when he smiles, and she loves that about him too. He rests his weight on his left foot, and she will lean on his left shoulder. He complains when they camp, but he’ll set up both their tents. They bicker a lot, and she adores that. He lets her cheat at cards. He dances with her, and he lets her step on his feet. He spoons her at night so she doesn’t get cold. He holds her hand, so she doesn’t feel alone.

“Good,” she says. “Otherwise I would have had to kill you, and wouldn’t that have been awful?”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!! I tried to hit each of your requests in some manner, but I don't have the same level of wit as Hawke or Varric lol


End file.
